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A RHAPSODY 



BY 



ANNA L, J, ARNOLD, 



. . DAYTDN, DHID, 
1BS3, 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1893, v>.\ 

The Mozart Club, of Dayton. Ohio, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



WRITTEN FOR 
THE MOZART CLUB, OF DAYTON, OHIO, 

ON THE 

Centenary of Mozart's Death, 
December 3, 1891. 



MOZART. 



The Temple doors of Sound 
Swing open wide 
Their gold-hinged noiseless valves. 
With wooing throbs, 
That almost rob 
Volition of its power, 
The pulsing fullness 
Of the vibrant air, 
From the great vault there, 
Allures, with magic force, 
The waiting soul 
Into the whole 
Great swelling sea within. 
Then softly back they sweep ; 
And Care, 
Despair, 
And Grief, and Pain, 
And thwarted Hopes, 
And fevered Brain 
Are left without their kind, embracing fold. 



i 



MOZART 



The Temple doors of Sound 
Swing open wide 
Their gold-hinged noiseless valves. 
With wooing throbs, 
That almost rob 
Volition of its power, 
The pulsing fullness 
Of the vibrant air, 
From the great vault there, 
Allures, with magic force, 
The waiting soul 
Into the whole 
Great swelling sea within. 
Then softly back they sweep ; 
And Care, 
Despair, 
And Grief, and Pain, 
And thwarted Hopes, 
And fevered Brain 
Are left without their kind, embracing fold. 



'Tis Music's sacred court ! 
Who enter here? 
Happy hearts, from far and near, 
Seeking more cheer, 
More beauty, more happiness to bless 
Their earthly lot. 
Broken hearts, torn with pain 
And wrung with grief, 
Seek a consolation brief, 

From the Source Divine. 
Homesick hearts, lonely here 
For the friends so dear, 
Longing, and weary, and praying 
For heaven. 
And, in the hallowed place 
Each finds, 
As Music winds 
Her soothing spell, 
That "All is well." 
Cheer, blessing, solace, love and hope 
Drop gently round them all, 
As dewy fragrant twilights fall, 
And shut away 
The fretful dav. 



The flood of music wells 
Out from some hidden source, 
And gathers as it swells 
Aloft, along its course, 
Billow on billow strong 

Of liquid song, — 
Till the wild waves break 
In foaming cadences of melody, 
Against the far-off shore 
Of heaven's bright crystal floor, 
That backward flings the strain, 
Re-echoing down the airy plain, 
The subtle harmony, 
That swells, recedes and dies, 
Faint with its own great stress, 
Its own rare power to bless, — 
Then, lives anew, 
Panting and sobbing, the great temple through 



The overture sweeps on. 
Its clashing chords 

Resound, 

Rebound, and blend, 



Until — at the end 
They melt, 
And sob themselves away 
In pure, sweet harmony. 



The prelude ends. 
The sweet tone-painter sends 
A rippling melody, 
That floats 
On the surface of the notes, 
And it thrills, 
As he wills, 
Along the sentient nerves, 
Responsive to his touch. 
On the canvas of the air 
Thus he limns, with prescient care, 
Studies complete, 
With power replete, 
Enveloped around 
With harmonious sound, 
Like the golden apples rare 
In the silver pictures fair, — 
Till, the senses change their realm, 



And the car becomes the eye, 
And his thoughts transparent lie 
On the vibrant warm background. 
True ! Music is painting 
Done in sound. 

The theme is Life, — 
Great, infinite, all-embracing life, 
Centered in God, 
But reaching out, out, out, 
Into the great abyss about 
The unknowing and unknown. 
Life! 
Forever rife, 
With all of joy, with all of strife ! 
Wonderful, worshipful, terrible 
Life ! 
Sublime the symphony ! 

With majestic, stately sweep 
Flows on the swift, wide, deep 
Rush, of the music's matchless mysteries 
Some stately octaves, — 



A soft, sweet chord or two- 
Then, the bright strong movement thro' 
Rippling triplets, 
Sparkling runs, 
Merry trills, 
Chase, and leap, and bound in glee, 
Creating for the fancy free 
A limpid gladness, only found 
In the " Heaven that lies around 

Our infancy." 
As the music gains its sway, 
Out from the tissue of the tune 
Into living day, 
A tiny boy, 
Not four years old, 
Patters with baby footsteps bold, 
And baby hands 
Reach up to find, 
Along the key-board ivory-lined, 
The sweet, clear chords. 
No words 
His lips can form, 
But, from the first, 
The high fine soul 



Must be heard ; 
And to the end, 
He ever reaches up to find 

The outlet 
For the music in his mind. 
At work, or play, 
The livelong day, 
'Twas music ever 
That held the sway. 
A father's wisdom, love and care 
Are the firm chords there, 
That bind, and hold, 

In prescient fold, 
Husbanding for richest life, 
The youthful heart, with music rife. 
Thro' the thrilling strains, 
E'en from the first, 
Is heard the wild glad burst 
Of great applause, — 
The favor that lifts 

To courtly homes. 
And, too, from the first, 
Work ! Steady work 
E'en Genius mav not shirk. 



So blended in this strain, — 

The sweet, bright tale 
Of the bright child ways, — 
Come, o'er and o'er again, 
The cheer)' heart, 
Touching common things to art, 
Adulation, love, and work, 

And the spirit's tender glow, 
As the father's instincts show 
The path that leads to Fame and God 
The boy heart lives. 
The boy heart gives, 
Thro' all the changing years, 
Tho' success be far 
And want be near, 

A courage high 
That knows not fear. 



The harmony grows richer. 

The great tone-artist flings, 
As the delicate melody sings, 
Into fine relief 
Against the life-entangled maze 



Of the youth's bright days, 
The picture, — still more clear. 
With soft euphonious charm, 

The restless agitation, 
In most delicate gradation, 
Slides gentler, gentler down, 
Till, with intensity profound, 
There comes — a stillness, redolent with sound — 
Some ''murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow in the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly/' 
While the music whispers 
The old, old tale, 
And love thrills out in a glad new birth, 
As stars gleam forth o'er the dewy dark earth ; 
And the strains grow wild, 
And the strains grow clear, 
With the impassioned impulse 
Of love's glad joy, and its anxious fear. 
And the work? 
Aye, the work ! 
For another's life, for another's cheer, 
Hard ceaseless work, year after year, 
To win the Rachel of his heart, — 



Forever, now, 
The music of their lives doth blend : 

And to the end, 
Melodious measure, firm, sustained, 
With power to bless, tho' hope has waned, 

In their love contained 
The essence pure of harmony divine. 
Aye ! Comfort the heart, 
If a great grand part 
In unison must be maintained, 
That Genius may, forsooth, 
Purity, Unity, Truth, 
Blend in the firmament of Art. 



The mingled perplexity, 

The tumultuous power, 

Of the firm crescendo 

That flings a shower 
Of sounding chords out on the air, 
Tell — the endless endurance and grace : 
Tell — the high ideal, 

The tame hard real, 
The earth-clogged dragging pace, 



Which Success doth make, 
When she will o'ertake 
Who struggles toward her fane. 
And the music throbs, and pants, 
In sympathetic touch 
With the spirit that aspires, 
And hopes, and strives for such 
A wealth of freedom and of peace ; 
That born again, to life and light, 
Triumphant in its God-given right, 
Untrammeled by sorrow, want, or care, 
It may, unchecked, its good gifts share. 



Irresistibly impelled 
By the melodies that welled 

Forever in his brain, 
To the work that he must do, 
To serve to Art most true, 
Nor live in vain, 
Thro' the music's swirl, 
His heart doth hurl 
To himself, this precious pearl. 
" Be true, O be true ! 



What tho' the soul must wait? 
Achieve. Be true, — and wait y 
Trust in thy God, and laugh at Fate." 
And the echo conies back faint : 
"Do. True. 

Wait. Fate." 



The great rugged beauty of the strain, 
As the harmony swells out again 
Thro' all the parts, 
Like the spell that holds in dreams, 
Till is heard, it almost seems, 
The beating of the hearts, 
Pictures, as it waves 

Away, and laves 
The spirit in soft airs, 
With graphic tints of tone, 
The man to Master grown. 

The same sweet phrases there ; 
The sister in the heart, — 
The father's guiding care, — 
The same courageous cheer, — 
The working without fear 



Of the result — 
And, ever with the rest, 
The reaching up to find, 
As did the baby mind, 
The Highest and the Best. 
And thus, with ever growing stress, 
With cadences that press 
Along the sounding heights 
Of the trembling, vibrant flights, 
The experiences of life 
Repeat, renew 
And strew 
The melody with sweeter power. 

And it gathers, as it flows, 
All the ecstacy that grows 
In the spirit self-subdued, 
With that perfect peace imbued, 
From loyalty to God, 
And loyalty to Art. 
Till, at last, triumphant measure 
Proclaims " Success!" — the treasure 
Sought, 
And bought 
With the nerve force. 



And the life-blood, 
And the wild heart beat 

That wrenched it 
From the clutches of Defeat. 
At last! 
Exultant ! Fervent ! 
With dignity and grace, 
Flowing on with stately pace, 
With trumpet peals 
That half reveal 
The pageantry and glare, 
And drum beat, and aria sweet, 
And choral antiphony, 
With thunder's crash, 
And cymbals clash, 
The music tells of Victory. 
The canvas gleams with light ; 

Day is evoked from night ; 
And ladies fair, and gallants brave, 
And lords and ladies, fair and grave, 
And Emperor, and royal train, 
Musicians, singers, and the people, too, 
Crowd in the picture's radiant hue, 
And add a rythmic glad delight, 



To the clear sounds that greet the sight. 

The Master sways the wand. 
Responsive to its gleaming beat 
Such fancies float, so wild, so sweet, 
They haste ''the waiting soul to meet," 
And hold it victor, ere it knows 
From what the magic influence flows. 
And, as the emotion deep and strong 
Bears the wild crowd its path along, 
The surging heart in every breast 
Responsive sends a ringing shout, 
Whose welcome din 

Thro' all the music struggles in, 
While to the echo pealeth out : 
" Bravo! II Maestro! 
Mozart ! 

Mozart! !" 
Cheer on cheer 
The enraptured crowds prolong, 
For the Shakespeare of the Realm of Tone, 
The Raphael of Song. 
A few low chords, 
Flute-like and clear, 
Serve to give 



Transition to the ear. 
Very tender, very deep, 
With burdened pathos 
Are the strains that sweep 
Surcharged with overflowing love, 
That settles o'er the scene 
Like a brooding dove. 
E'en while the crowds 
Move on their way, 
The good, great heart 
Seeks to impart 
His pride and his joy in the strife, 
To the faithful guardian of his life. 
No words they speak ; 
Words are too weak 
To paint emotion. 
But, from the ocean 
Of their love and pride, 

A rising tide 

Of heart communion flows. 

The grey locks mingle with the auburn hair, 

And there, 

On his knees, 

At his father's feet, 



Their silent spirits meet. 
And now, 
Thro' gushing tears, 
The Father kisses the Master's brow. 



Falling like a heavy rain, 
Drenching all the heart with pain, 
A solemn, calm and gentle plaint 

Throbs thro' the interlude. 
Prolonged, sustained and slow 
The varied harmonies flow, 
Suggesting thro' the years they show, 
An e'er increasing meed of woe ; 
Some heavy sorrow's weighty blow 
Presaging to the troubled soul, 
That human strength can not control. 
A minor C. 
"That key, 
Sacred to tears," 
Arouses the fears. 
While the plaint of the theme, 
Like a chant in a dream, 
Rises and swells, with solemn and dignified measure ; 



And the growing strains accumulate 
A thrilling, heavy and warning weight. 
The rich deep tones of a clarinet, 
Where the waves of the melody have met, 
In notes of awful warning, 
And the pealing voice of the trumpet call, 
That starts, and wakens, and summons all 

To the Throne, at the Judgment morning, 
Gleam and crash thro' the sounding tide, 
And startle the chords they float beside, 

Then, sink in terrified silence. 
'Tis the "Dies Irae" of a Requiem Mass 
That flings its terrors on every class, 
And hovers in gloomy, sad portent, 
Wherever its thrilling notes are sent. 
And anguished souls, 
Where its warning rolls, 
Are almost o'envhelmed by its billows. 
Until, at length, 
The tumult and the horror die 
In trembling supplication. 
And thro' the sweet strong concord fly 
The hopes of pardon and consolation ; 
And the rising climax of the melody 



Bursts forth in a glad " Benedictus." 
Like mist to the rain, 
Like sadness to pain, 
Is the sorrow the music expresses, 
Whose blending of gladness, 
Along with the sadness, 
Triumph and strength confesses. 

A soft refrain, like distant bells, 
Ringing their chimes with tender knells, 
Steals o'er the sense 
From the vault immense : 
Till the waves of Eternity, receding far, 
Come over the limit of Time's great bar, 

Close to the weary heart of man, 
Till he scarcely knows, if his brow be cooled 
By the evening breeze of this life fair, 
Or the Future's fresh, sweet morning air. 



The light of the music is burning low, 
And it falls like a halo, in golden glow, 

Around a sorrowing little group, 
Who sing thro' their tears such exquisite strain, 
That angels, to hear its pathetic refrain, 



From the heavenly radiance stoop. 
"Requiem eternam eis," sings 
The Master and his friends: 
" 'Tis for myself, said I not so? 
With it my life work ends." 
The tender " Laehrymosa " brings 
The loosened hold of his great heart's strings, 
And he weeps great tears, 
The costly vintage of burdened years. 

'Tis sweet to live, but better to be 
In the realms of bright Immortality, 

Where ever and ever, the soul shall find 
The answering chords, that e'en here, bind 
The spirit to its God. 
When human effort attains the Best, 
What is left but eternal Rest, — 
Rest, where imperishable Beauty, forsooth, 
Rejoices in the freedom of Genius and Truth! 

He enters this Rest. 

Out from the beautiful courts above 

fck Il Maestro" rings, with a peal of love 

Thro 1 the heavenly dome, 

As the seraphs lead his spirit home. 



The light of the music gleams again, 
In saddened mournful cadence, — when, 
Out in the storm, not a single friend, 
To do him honor, his presence doth lend, 
Or mark the lonely grave. 
" So great, so loved, so glorious, 
So forgotten, so unrepaid." 
A grave without a name ! 
And is this Fame? 
For this the toil, 
The aching brow T , the heart's wild pain? 
Well, — is it better on earth to learn 
To live for a tomb with a golden urn? 
Or to walk with God, and be no more, 
Or from Nebo's height view the beautiful shore 
Of the promised land? 
Nay, this is Fame, — 
A deathless name 
Among the immortal band. 
See ! In Germany's musical heavens afar 
He shines out clear their Morning Star, — 
While Music hastens with honor meet 
To lay her crown at the master's feet. 
Aye, this is Fame! 



Adown the surging galaxy of years, 
Fame's herald bold. 
With his trump of gold, 
And brow among the stars, 
Along the music's burning bars 
Wings his triumphant course, — 
A Century away, 
From that weary day ; — 
And peals a note 
From the golden throat, 
Out, out to the coming years; 
"Hail, II Maestro! 
Hail, thou Great Heart! 
Hail, King of Tones ! 
All hail! Mozart!" 



>K * 



Requiem eternam ei, Domine," 
The music dies away 
In faint far-echoed lay. 
And, out from the Temple door, 
That turns as noiseless as before, 



The soul goes back 
To the beaten track. 
Of the duty allotted by God. 
But, not as before 
Is the heart so sore, 
Nor the burden so weary and hard; 
For the master of music, 
And the Master above, 
Have spoken a peace to the heart. 
And we thank His Name 
For Music's sweet spell, 
And we whisper for courage 
"Mozart ! " 




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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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015 7853351 



